


the art of falling apart

by lqbys



Category: One Piece
Genre: Bonding, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26284447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lqbys/pseuds/lqbys
Summary: Law’s lips brush his forehead. “You can get help,” he continues, his voice toneless and unaffected as ever. “I can help,” he adds, a little softer, a little quieter.“Really, Traf? You’re a shrink too now?”“I’m not,” the surgeon laughs briefly. “But I know one thing or two about food and trauma, and I know, too, you like to pretend Sabondy and Marineford aren’t eating you alive.”
Relationships: Monkey D. Luffy/Trafalgar D. Water Law
Comments: 7
Kudos: 161





	the art of falling apart

**Author's Note:**

> **trigger warning: eating disorders, purging, graphic descriptions**

Luffy is many things, but sick isn’t one of them. 

Law used to be sure of that. Because Luffy’s many, many things, from foolishly brave to freakishly indestructible, and maybe a tad bit egoistic at times; because Luffy’s fierce and his heart is gold even if it never translates correctly with his actions; because Luffy’s otherworldly, something else entirely, but Luffy is _not_ sick.

He can’t be. There’s no ruling the sea if he is - Chopper, hell, even Law lately, make sure he’s always one-hundred percent and resting properly. 

Yet.

Luffy’s not sick, but he very much is. 

Law’s sure of that, now.

“Sanji, more,” Luffy yells through a mouthful of food, making Usopp shriek in disgust beside him. 

More comes—when Sanji cooks, he cooks a hell of a fucking lot, and it’s never a problem with Luffy around. 

Or maybe it is; Law’s fingers tap incessantly on the table. 

“Something on your mind, Mr. Trafalgar?” 

Law blinks. Robin’s smiling behind a piece of roast chicken, sat across from him. Her hair is wet, styled back, sticking to her shoulders, stray droplets of water running down her bare arms. Her face is make-up free, glowing a healthy pink, and there’s not a single hint of the horror and pain they faced two islands away from here. Some nasty business it was, a fight to remind them the New World is cruel and cold - they crossed paths on that wretched island, and Luffy, although bleeding and aching, shouted and jumped and insisted until Law had no choice but to sail with the Straw Hats for a while.

They healed okay since then. Law’s glad.

“Not really,” he says, but even so his eyes trail back to Luffy, and he knows Robins catches it.

“Someone, then.” 

Law’s eyes cut to hers. They’re glinting. She licks her fingers clean, and smiles at him instead of waiting for an answer she knows won’t really come. 

“You have sauce there,” Law points out, and Robin laughs a little. 

“Help me clean it off, then,” she says, to which Law obliges. 

Robin’s many things too; rock-solid, a different kind of indestructible, strangely gentle when she feels like it. Law used to think she wasn’t a Strawhat like the rest of the crew was, up until he simply _couldn’t_. Robin’s many things—made of the same resilient and cunning stuff as the captain she loved with her entire being; Robin flirts just as much as Nami and Sanji; sleeps through the day with Zoro, Usopp and Chopper, or spends hours in quiet serenity with Brook and Franky, because Robin’s a Strawhat, through and through.

“Well thank you, good sir,” she smiles, and leaves him to his brooding. 

Law’s grateful. Robin is Robin, perceptive and understanding, and Luffy is Luffy, always asking for more, more, _more_.

“San- _ji_!” 

“Aye, aye, captain.” 

There he comes, Black Leg - giving more, more, more. 

Dinner stretches on, and no one complains, not even Law. Food is good, sake is better, and Strawhats are Strawhats - loud, shameless, unapologetically their own weird selves. Law’s in good spirits, but he knows when to call it a night, so he gets up and excuses himself and wishes good night to everyone. He leaves with a smile and Usopp shouting at his back “please do not lock your door I am _sick_ of repairing it every time Luffy forces his way into your room”. 

Law agrees because it’s only fair.

**__________________________**

He doesn’t fall asleep. 

Insomnia’s an old friend. Law tosses and turns and thinks of things he shouldn’t really think about if he wants to sleep. Time stops making sense, space smothers him—Law’s too used to his own erratic heartbeat to really care so he lets panic wash him away wave after wave and keeps his breathing controlled. 

It’s alright. Law’s many things too, all fucked and blurry and taking up every bit of space in his skull, between his lungs and behind his closed lids and he's accepted long ago there’s no escaping it. But it’s alright—Luffy makes it bearable.

He hasn't yet, tonight. Law gives up.

He finds the dendenmushi of his crew easily amidst the pile of other things in corner of the room. Law doesn’t expect any of them to be awake at this ungodly hour, even if sleep’s become the kind of privilege you automatically lose entering the New World. But he’s lucky, tonight, when it takes only ten seconds for someone to pick up. 

“What’s up, cap?” 

Law smiles to himself.

“Can’t sleep,” he says. “It’s getting boring. How’s everyone?” 

Penguin hums. There’s the usual beeping sounds of machinery coming from behind him, the constant, low buzz of engines usually keeping Law company on late nights. Underwater, then. They’re always underwater, nowadays.

“They’re fine. Shachi got the flu so we locked him up. Bepo and Jean fought over some bullshit game and won’t speak to each other. And your plants look fucking depressed.” 

“Maybe if somebody took the time to water them,” Law grumbles, and shifts against the the window, eyes trailing over the pitch-black sky. 

There’s a laugh on the other side of the line. “Promise I do. We don’t all have green hands or whatever you people say in North Blue.” 

“Bet Killer’s around and you’re so distracted you forget all about your captain’s poor, poor plants.” 

“Speaking of which,” Penguin suddenly says, not even trying to conter the argument, which makes Law smile some more. “Kid left you a message.” 

Penguin’s explaining whatever Eustass is trying to communicate, but Law isn’t paying attention; the doorbell to his room is moving, and he expects Luffy to emerge only to be left waiting. The door doesn’t blast open, but Law hears the telltale _clap-clap-clap_ of sandals outside his room until the sound slowly fades away.

“Still listening, cap?” 

“No,” Law sighs. “Spaced out. Sorry, Peng. Tell me again tomorrow, yeah?” 

“Sure thing. Get some sleep, old man. You need it.” 

“I’ll try. Tell Killer I say hi.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Bed, now, mate.” 

The dendenmushi falls back asleep. Law smiles one more time before exiting his room.

**__________________________**

Luffy’s entire body spasms and he lurches forward desperatly, emptying his stomach of its last drop of acid. Cheek pressed against the wood, he spits, and closes his eyes. 

Luffy knows that feeing. He knows all about the burning oesophagus, about his stomach twisting and clenching on nothing, the constant nausea, the little jerks of his body as it prepares itself for another wave of bile. He spits again, turns around, and crumbles to the floor. 

When he opens his eyes, it takes him a while to recognise the tall silhouette looming there. When he does, he feels acid churn in his belly all over again. Law’s arms are crossed against his chest, and he doesn’t look very happy, eyes hard and—fuck. Luffy knows that look. He knows it too damn much. 

“Black Leg-ya’s a damn good chef, isn’t he?” Law muses quietly, his voice strangely distant sounding even though he’s standing just there. “You’re lucky to have him on board.” 

“Yeah,” Luffy quietly agrees.

“That sea king he did, tonight? It tasted incredible. So tender, so juicy.” 

Luffy breathes in harshly. Law talks and Luffy almost _smells_ the fucking thing, and even if he knows it’s not real, nausea is instantaneous, which almost makes him scream.

“Stop that,” he says, voice rough and scratchy. 

“The quiche was exceptional, too. I wonder which grease he uses for the pork.”

“ _Law_.” 

It’s coming up, up, up.

“Perhaps I even ought to ask him where he buys his blue cheese.”

Luffy scrambles to his feet just in time before he throws up once again right into the ocean. It’s mostly spit and acid—his eyes are blurry, his throat burns and aches, and he tastes blood too on his tongue now. His upper body still hanging overboard, Luffy watches the way the ocean moves silently, how prettily it glitters under the moon’s rays. His throat hurts. Everything hurts.

He spits one last time, wipes his mouth with his sleeve and faces Law. 

“Thanks, Traffy. I hate you.” 

He doesn’t, not really. Luffy’s not mad either, he’s just tired and cold.

“Right,” Law says dismissively. 

Luffy half expects him to leave after that, which would have sucked real bad, but luckily he doesn’t—instead, he moves, walking until he reaches him. He sits close enough, but Luffy shuffles until his body is pressed against him, and even so he’s still shivering. Law offers him the plaid he’s come with, Luffy accepts wordlessly, and the surgeon draps it around both of them until they’re cocooned warmly on the deck.

It’s silent for a long, long while. 

“When I told you to eat more, I didn’t mean this,” Law says.

Luffy plays dumb because that’s what he’s best at, and once upon a time it might’ve worked on Law, but after Marineford, after Punk Hazard, after Dressrosa, after every little bit of hell they’ve faced and survived, Luffy’s bullshit falls flat at Law’s feet, and all he has to do is wait until Luffy’s frustration eats him alive and he fucks himself over on his own. Luffy sniffles. 

“‘S fine,” he mumbles—keeps his gaze stubbornly on the stars gazing upon them. “Food poisoning or something.”

“Are you implying that Black Leg-ya’s food has failed you?” 

Luffy’s outraged. This time he does look at Law, only to glare at him, eyebrows scrunched together and teeth grinding. “Sanji’s food would _never_ ,” he says and he means it wholly. “I said shit’s fine, Traffy. I had too much, ‘s all.” 

Law hums, considers this, but doesn’t exactly believe him. Rightfully so, Luffy knows it. All these years ago, Luffy’s body failing him mid-battle in Sabondy hadn’t slipped past Law’s attention, but he didn’t ask about it until he had to leave Luffy in Jinbe and Rayleigh’s care. Hell, it wasn’t even a question—just the glint of grey in the doctor’s eyes as he casually said, _you should eat more, Mugiwara-ya_. 

It’s haunting. It’s an entire part of himself, a nameless, sharp-teethed monster eating bits of his sanity away every time Luffy dwells too much on it. Would it have been any different back then if his body didn’t betray him? Would he have gone to Impel Down and left without losing twenty-something years to life if he didn’t feel so fucking boneless all the time? Would Ace still be there, if—

It’s haunting. The monster eats and eats and eats and Luffy eats too because he feels like if he doesn’t there wouldn’t be anything left of him. He asks Sanji for more, and Sanji gives it to him until he’s so full he feels like dying and doesn't touch anything for days. It’s terrible. The food never is—Sanji’s exceptional, he truly is—but Luffy’s body never knows quite what to do with it. Maybe it’s the rubber fruit, or maybe it’s all in his mind; either way, Luffy eats like two entire legions, and maybe it _is_ a fucking problem.

Law’s still silent. Luffy hates silence, so he feels the urge to add, “C’mon, don’t look so fucking sad. My body’s just being stupid.” 

“Your body is trying to tell you something, Luff.” 

He’s dropped the weird honorific. Law rarely does it, whether in public or in private, but at this very instant, Law doesn’t see him as Strawhat, the billion beri pirate, the future king of pirates—he sees him as just what he is, and it hurts way more than Luffy can admit.

Your body is trying to tell you something. What a joke. Maybe it’s not his mind—maybe the body is the real problem. Luffy’s always been scrawny, some lanky kid with bony shoulders and bruised knees, but the men he admires are big and scary, made of terrible things and hard muscles; Sabo and Ace used to say _ya gotta eat if ya wanna get tall_ , Shanks used to laugh _still a skinny, stinky kid, ain’t ya_ and—it stuck. 

It stuck all the way to Grand Line, then resonated in his head when he stood in front of Admirals with his breath caught in his throat and his stomach empty. It stuck every day he passed with Rayleigh pushing his limits until he collapsed; it stuck and rang louder than Doffy’s laugh, the cries of an entire country in distress.

Luffy exhales a long, long breath. He’s supposed to be over all of this—he’s supposed to be strong. He’s made it so far out of sheer willpower, he’s made it so far shutting his mind off when it started tearing itself apart and will continue to do so in the future. 

He has to, he _needs_ to. 

“I’m telling ya, Doc. Rubber means rubber, like, everything rubber. Including my fucking guts.” 

It’s a only a half-lie. It’s the best Luffy can come up with. He’s still shivering, even when Law’s close and radiating warmth, and this he can’t really blame his fruit for. He moves until he’s practically glued to Law’s side, half-sitting on his lap. Luffy’s lids flutter shut when Law’s hand comes resting on top of his head.

It’s just the two of them, and it’s nice.

“There’s a name for that, Monkey-ya.” 

Luffy takes it back. It isn’t fucking nice. He clicks his tongue, head-butts Law’s chest just because, and pretends he hasn’t heard a single word. Still, Law is relentless, which means it’d take a lot more from Luffy to make him shut up. There’s a few things he can think of, but the mere thought of sex makes him tired, so he grinds his teeth and endure yet another medical examination he hasn’t asked for.

Law’s lips brush his forehead. “You can get help,” he continues, his voice toneless and unaffected as ever. “I can help,” he adds, a little softer, a little quieter. 

That’s a funny one. “Really, Traf? You’re a shrink now?” 

“I’m not,” the surgeon laughs briefly. “But I know one thing or two about food and trauma, and I know, too, you like to pretend Sabondy and Marineford aren’t eating you alive.”

Luffy bites his tongue, hard. His ribcage feels too tiny, too fragile for his heart, and each heartbeat hurts, so he pushes air out of his lungs and forces himself to get his shit together. He won’t cry. He won’t cry in Law’s arms, even if he badly wants to, even there’s nothing, _nothing_ holding him back. 

Because there’d be no use, because he’s done it once, two years ago, and—Law had only left.

Luffy doesn’t say anything because his throat’s too fucking tight to allow any sound, and Law doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing more to say. 

A long while later, when Luffy’s frozen cold and drowsy, he jumps on his feet and pulls Law with him along the deck to the quietness and secrecy of the Sunny’s guest chambers. 

“Stinks,” Luffy says. “Gotta brush my teeth.” 

He pulls away: Law doesn’t let go of his hand. His eyes cut to their joined fingers and he stays there, unmoving, shameful, quiet and shivering under the blanket, miserable and miles away from the man who stood unafraid in front of three great admirals. 

“Traf. My hand,” Luffy whispers.

“Don’t,” Law simply says.

“Huh?” 

Law doesn’t answer at first. Luffy still refuses to look at him, hasn’t once since they got up and away from the deck, but Law’s nothing if not full of patience and devouted. Some things need time; Luffy deserves every second.

“Don’t brush your teeth after you throw up. Acid ruins them. Drinking water will do for tonight.”

Luffy snorts. “Okay, doc.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“Yeah, got it. Lemme go.” 

Law has no reason to, so he simply doesn’t. 

“Breakfast’s on me, tomorrow.” 

“Sanji got it,” Luffy shots back in a heartbeat, always so quick to throw himself into battle for those he cherishes. 

“He does,” Law confirms, a slight curl to his lips and warmth in his chest. “Let me cook for you anyway.” 

It feels only fair. Familiar, in a way Law hasn’t felt in a long time. Law’s only ever cooked willingly for Cora-san; Doflamingo’s dishes he made sure always were unsalvagle out of pure spit, and the Polar Tang hid, in the midst of machinery and sterilised rooms, a little kitchen where only Jean Bart was allowed for safety reasons.

Law doesn’t necessarily like cooking, but for Luffy he’s ready to entertain the idea. And when he finally looks up, eyes earnest and suddenly glinting, his lower lip rolling between his teeth as if faced with intense reflexion—the kind he never needs when he’s throwing over corrupted dirigeants—Law’s sure it won’t be a one time thing.

“I’m gonna say yes only because I wanna see you in an apron. Hope you cook as well as you cut people cuz I’ll be expecting your best, Mr. Doctor Man.” 

Law brings his hand to his lips, and bows just a little as he leaves a feather kiss against Luffy’s bruised knuckles. 

“As the king wishes,” he says—only half joking. 

Luffy smiles. 

Law keeps that image tucked beside his heart for all the other nights he will spend sleepless and cold.

**Author's Note:**

> please listen to Mr. Doctor Man by Palaye Royale and talk to me about your luffy headcanons i love to hear it <3


End file.
